


Hunter's Moon

by Amahami



Series: All Around Us [8]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chronic Pain, Drugs, Ed is dying, Familial Love, Gen, Gift Giving, Illnesses, Intervention, Panic Attacks, Sick Edward Elric, ed does not die in this fic, trisha's illness was hereditary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26779945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amahami/pseuds/Amahami
Summary: : the full moon after the Harvest Moon (which is Autumn's equinox moon), for making final preparations for winter. Occurs in October or November.Mustang and Hawkeye have everything prepared to give to Edward. First they have to corner him for a nice long chat.Lucky for them, he has a two-hour layover in Central shortly after they finish.(ft. "I'm not addicted, I'm dependent")
Relationships: Alphonse Elric & Edward Elric, Edward Elric & Riza Hawkeye, Edward Elric & Roy Mustang
Series: All Around Us [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858846
Comments: 13
Kudos: 149





	Hunter's Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta reader [Shilo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shilo1364/pseuds/shilo1364) and to my characterisation readers, Rae and Bean.
> 
>  **Trigger warnings:** hard drugs (discussed in-scene, but not taken), needles, flashbang grenades, and guns. If you need more details let me know, and I'll be sure to give them. Please be safe.
> 
> While Al is allowed in military buildings and all that kind of thing, he is not allowed into the gun range, so he has no reason to go with Ed, and he is well aware of this.

The next time Ed was in Central, it was only supposed to be for two hours; he and Al were on their way to Yuflam and got stuck with a layover.

Ed was staring blankly out of the train station pretending his ass wasn't numb when something caught his eye. He looked up. Hawkeye was approaching them with determination.

"Major Elric," she said, standing at attention before him, though sans salute. "Your bi-annual firearms exam is overdue. You are instructed to come with me so you can take the exam posthaste."

Ed groaned as he stood. "I thought it was every other year, not twice a year." He stretched his arms above his head to loosen the muscles in his upper back.

"You were told to follow me to the shooting range," she said again, firmly.

Ed sighed and turned to Al. "Hopefully I'll be back before the train leaves. If not, head to the barracks or something, and I'll meet up with you after." He leaned side to side to loosen his lower back and hips.

"Sure, Brother. And remember to breathe!" Al shouted to Edward and Hawkeye's retreating backs.

Ed didn't think much of the order until they passed by the shooting range.

"Uh… Lieutenant?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yes, Edward?" Hawkeye replied, not even glancing in his direction as she continued her brisk pace.

"We passed the range." He nodded his head in the direction they came from.

"Yes, we did," she replied as they approached Mustang's office.

She led him straight through to Mustang's inner office, not so much as glancing at her co-workers, then closed the door behind him. With her still in the room.

"He has about an hour before he needs to leave, Sir," the Lieutenant said. Once Mustang nodded, she sat down on the couch and relaxed her shoulders.

"Fullmetal, please sit down."

"What's going on?" he asked suspiciously. There was no way this could be anything good.

"You left the phone booth door ajar last week," Hawkeye began after a quiet sigh, "and I heard everything you said." While she was visibly apologetic, there was no hint of regret in her body language, nor any hint of emotion in her voice.

Ed’s first instinct was to get mad, but he had only yelled “How-” when he fully registered Hawkeye’s expression. He could see that she was worried or caring or something; not mean or cruel like he’d almost expected.

Ed sighed and shrugged, anger dissipating. “What do you want me to say?” he asked harshly, unable to keep the hurt from his voice.

He slowly lowered his aching body onto the couch next to Hawkeye, who did not flinch at his question, or look away when he narrowed his eyes at her.

Ed’s eyes flicked to Mustang when he stood up and walked around his desk to sit on the couch opposite Ed. “Why didn’t you tell us?” the Colonel asked.

Ed scoffed and looked away. “There’s nothing anyone can do, so what would be the point of telling you? So you can kick me out? Steal my research? Send me to a lab? Send my _brother_ to a lab?” When neither adult replied, he shrugged sharply and studied Mustang’s desk, legs tensed to run.

After a few more moments of silence, Ed couldn’t take it anymore and looked back to Mustang and Hawkeye, expecting disgust or surprise at guessing their plans.

Instead, he saw pure horror on their faces, open and unforced.

They were staring at each other, eyes wide and unblinking. Mustang mouthed what might have been ‘the fuck.’

Several moments later, Hawkeye turned to him. “No,” she said emphatically, voice gritty. “Never. We would never--” She coughed. “We would _never_ do any of those. We actually have things to give you, that might help. We,” she gestured to herself and Mustang, “just wanted to have a discussion with you about it first.”

“Huh?” Ed replied eloquently.

“To answer your question, Fullmetal, if we had known, we could have been sending you on fewer strenuous missions, or at least minimising your traveling, and making sure you got plenty of rest between missions,” Mustang said in a quiet voice, sounding… hurt?

Ed looked at Mustang, and yeah, he _looked_ hurt, too. Ed turned away, towards one of the bookshelves on the walls. “I can’t slow down. I need to get Al’s body back,” he replied firmly.

In his peripheral vision he saw Mustang and Hawkeye exchange looks. He looked harder and focused on the essay by Jeremiah Smith on the classification of matter states.

Hawkeye leaned forward so her forearms rested on her thighs. “After overhearing your conversation, I met up with Roy to make a plan of action; he already knew you were sick, and told me what he knew.” Hawkeye paused and tilted her head before continuing, “At least, some of what he knew.”

They hadn’t answered him, though. Were they going to kick him out of the military? Were they going to put Al in a lab? Fuck, fuck, fuck--

“Our plan of action,” Mustang said, jolting Edward out of his spiral, picking up where Hawkeye had left off, “was to call Mrs. Izumi Curtis to get what information on your wellbeing we could.”

Ed’s face contorted suddenly as he snorted, imagining what _that_ conversation was like.

Mustang ignored him and continued, “She gave us Doctor Harry Shoko’s phone number and, long story short, we got your medical records from him.”

Ed turned abruptly away from the bookshelf to glare at Mustang, thoughts returned to the present.

How _dare_ Mustang go behind his back to get personal information like that?  
  
Stumbling upon him buying drugs was one thing, but this? Actively _choosing_ to bypass Ed himself to get access to something so personal?

Ed's thoughts must have been clear on his face, since Mustang said, “Legally speaking, I have not only the right, but the _responsibility_ to obtain and review my subordinates’ medical records.”

Ed sneered at him before turning back to glare at the bookshelves.

He focused on remembering Smith's work. It was longer than it needed to be, but it proposed more alchemical symbols to describe states of matter, so alchemy could be more precise.

Hawkeye folded a leg under herself as she turned to face him.

“Edward, please understand: we were worried. We still are,” she said as she put a hand at the junction of his shoulder and neck to ground him and re-enforce her words.

Ed shook his head and began tapping his flesh fingers against his metal knee. “What else?” he demanded, voice dead flat.

Hawkeye understood what he meant and replied, “We went to visit Ms. Rockbell.”

Ed flinched harshly and stood up, Hawkeye's hand sliding off his shoulder. “How dare you! How _dare_ you? You can’t go visiting my _family_ about this shit! It’s mine, and mine _alone_. Leave my family out of it!”

He turned to Hawkeye, glaring down at her. “What if she hadn’t known? Did you consider that? Did you even consider my reasons for not wanting _you_ to know? _No?_ Didn’t fucking think so.”

He turned his back fully to them, furious. Furious enough he could do something he’d regret if he looked at them any longer.

Neither officer moved to defend themselves.

“Why did you even go to her?" Ed continued, gesticulating broadly to the bookshelf, despite his aching shoulders. "What made you think worrying an innocent old lady and distracting her from her life’s work would somehow be a _good_ idea?”

Ed began to pace in front of Mustang’s desk, feeling far too full of angry energy to keep still.

“We thought she might be able to give us some insight into your illness,” Mustang said at a lower volume than normal, obviously trying to keep the rest of his office oblivious. Ed would appreciate that in the future, but in the moment, Mustang's volume didn't even register.

What did register caused Ed to freeze mid-step. He blinked a few times, set his foot down, and turned to look fully at Mustang. “What?” he asked in confusion.

Hawkeye answered instead. “Since you’re…” she took a deep breath. “...dying… Of the same illness that killed your mother…” Hawkeye took another moment to gather her thoughts.

“We assumed that since Ms. Rockbell is knowledgeable in the medical field and lives in the house closest to where yours was that she helped care for your mother.”

Ed slowly walked back to the couch, rolling the words around in his head as he sat back down next to Hawkeye, who waited until he was comfortable to continue.

“We asked her for any information she had on the illness, and any treatments she was aware of.”

Hawkeye uncharacteristically looked away as she said, “She gave us a list of what helped your mother, what made her feel worse, and the theories she had on what might help you.” Hawkeye untucked her leg and rested it quietly against the ground so she could reach into one of her pockets.

She pulled out a sleek little notebook, about the size of a business card. It had a stone castle on the front, with gargoyles on every visible wall and corner. She handed it to him.

“You should keep a list of emergency contacts. I’ve added the office number, my home number, Roy’s number, Sergeant Fuery’s home number, and Roy’s aunt’s work and home numbers to this booklet, along with Doctor Shoko’s phone number and address.”

“That’s… A lot,” Edward said as he slowly absorbed Hawkeye’s words. “But I have most of those numbers memorised. Why would I need them written down?”

Ed flipped through the tiny contacts book. The title page said _Medical Information_ and had only his name and Mustang’s address on it, leaving him to fill the rest in.

Hawkeye’s careful script adorned several pages in it, where all the people she’d listed had been added. She’d even left space between Doctor Shoko’s entry and the rest of the entries, so he could put more important contacts closer to the front.

“In case you’re alone, unconscious, and in need of help,” Mustang explained, as his lips turned up in a gentle smile. “And in case we're unavailable, there are others who can help.”

Hawkeye nodded in agreement, and Ed sighed. “Yeah, fine. I’ll accept that. Are we done now, though? This is awkward and I _really_ don’t want to be here, and I have a train to catch.”

His body also didn't want to be there, but he didn't say that; he’d been on a train or a train station bench for most of the last twenty hours, and one tends to not notice just how many muscles one has until said muscles get their asses stuck on a bench for hours at a time.

He mentally groaned in exasperation at his body.

Mustang hid a laugh behind his hand. Hawkeye leaned underneath the coffee table between the two couches, not to hide her smile, but to pull out a small cloth bag with a zipper and handed it to him.

Edward’s eyes rose in surprise -- the bag was _heavy_. The dark fabric felt thick and durable, at least. Unused to accessibility as he was, he had to be careful unzipping the bag.

“Huh?” Ed asked in confusion and disbelief upon comprehending what lay inside.

“The bag is yours, as well as everything in it," Mustang said.

When his expression remained disbelieving, Hawkeye said, "Some of it’s in warfront kits,” almost defensively.

“Unpack it so we can explain everything within, and then you can re-pack it so you know where everything is located,” Mustang said in a voice opposite of what he used to give orders.

Ed shrugged, lips turning down as his automail shoulder twinged and shot a bolt of lightning down his arm, causing it to twitch.

Ed pulled the needles out of the bag first. They clearly didn’t intend for him to use them, so he could tolerate holding them in his hand, though they weighed far more than they should. At least he couldn’t see any part of the actual needles.

“Atropine,” Mustang said. “For use when you’ve been hit with any kind of nerve gas. There’s instructions on them, but you have to take the first dose, call a medic, then follow up with more injections according to the instructions until help arrives. It also shows how to do the injections, but let me show you:”

Mustang pulled a cheap pen from his uniform somewhere. He pointed to the butt end of the pen. “This is the needle end,” he said.

“You take the cap off,” he said as he did so. Hawkeye pointed to the grey end of the needles in his hand, showing him where the cap was.

Ed looked back to Mustang, pretending Hawkeye didn't think he was a toddler.

“Pull your arm back like this, then forcibly swing your arm down,” Mustang swung his arm down so the blunt end of the pen hit his outer thigh. He held the pen there for several seconds. “You keep it pressed there for at least ten seconds -- that’s ten full counts of ‘Central City.’ Then you can remove it.”

Ed nodded. It was good to know, so he could tell someone how to do it in case of an emergency.

He put the needles down without much care and reached back into the bag. He pulled out a pillow filled with rice. “The fuck?” he asked.

“A heating pad,” Hawkeye explained. “They work wonders for many kinds of pain. If you flip it over…” Hawkeye waited until he flipped it over on his lap.

There was an array he’d never seen before stitched carefully onto it. When activated, it would heat the interior of the pillow to 343 Kelvin.

“Here,” Hawkeye said, pressing a finger to the array.

Just moments later, the bag was nice and hot, and Edward put the pad over his automail shoulder. He moaned for how good it felt, and promptly forgot how upset he was at the two of them.

“You rock, Hawkeye,” he said, grateful and genuinely impressed and maybe a little in love.

Hawkeye quirked her lips up into a smile. “Roy made the array for me, back when we were teenagers.”

Ed’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He looked at Mustang, who lounged comfortably on the couch with his feet on the coffee table.

“I’m impressed,” Ed said sincerely.

Mustang didn’t reply and instead gestured to the bag.

“Right,” Ed said, reaching in and pulling out a sturdy metal box. He opened it. Inside, on -- _velvet? Really?_ \-- were three glass capsules the size of shotglasses and three opaque metal tubes in a perforated canister.

“Flashbangs,” Mustang told him. “They’ll blind and deafen anyone near them when they go off. When you’re ready to use one, open the metal tube, open a glass capsule, pour the liquid into the metal tube, close it, then throw it. Make sure you’re wearing ear protection and cover your eyes well when it goes off.”

Ed hummed and tilted his head side to side as he considered the weapons in front of him. “Yeah, okay. The casing is to prevent fragmentation injuries?”

Mustang nodded. Ed closed and latched the box with care before putting it aside and reaching into the bag again. It was beginning to feel like the equinox celebrations he’d been to, with all the gifts he was receiving.

(He was stuck on the bag, because a zipper? That would make his life _so_ much easier on bad days. He almost couldn't wait.)

Next, Ed pulled out what looked like a deck of cards covered in cloth.

“It's an emergency blanket,” Hawkeye explained. “It reflects over ninety percent of heat back to the source, so if you’re stuck someplace cold, you won’t freeze.” She paused for a moment to look around suspiciously before stage whispering, “Make sure you don’t light it on fire.”

“Hey, that wasn’t my fault!” Mustang defended in a near-whine.

“I didn’t even mention you, Sir,” she replied in an ultra-formal deadpan.

Ed fought a grin as he put the tiny packaged blanket down.

As he pulled out a paperback book-sized case, he caught Mustang pouting at Hawkeye.

When Hawkeye turned back to him, he watched her expression slide from open and casual to formal neutrality.

“I know you don’t like guns, Edward, but I’d feel better if you’d carry one. It’s small but reliable, and the bullets are simple and should be easy to transmute,” she said. “The schematics for it, as well as for the ammunition, are beneath the foam. And when you need to clean and lubricate the gun, you can use the same oil you use for your automail, and the same technique you’ve used for your mandatory weapons exams.”

Ed grimaced but opened the case. Hawkeye was right: the gun was _tiny._ He could see himself using it, though, which was something he couldn't say of any other gun.

It was still nothing but an implement of death, but… Maybe having it on-hand wouldn't be so bad.

Oh,“Speaking of, we’re going to need to keep scheduling me for ‘weapons exams’ every six months now, you know that, right?” Ed asked.

“Why don’t you just tell Alphonse?” Hawkeye asked.

Mustang scoffed. “Spoken like an only child. He doesn’t want to worry Al. Any benefits don’t outweigh that single fact.”

“For once,” Ed replied, “the bastard’s right.”

Hawkeye blinked at him.

“If you have time,” Mustang interrupted before Hawkeye could reply, readjusting himself on the couch to a more upright position from where he’d managed to slide down, “please go to the gun range and practice with it.”

Hawkeye nodded in agreement. “Please.”

Ed nodded. “Of course I will. A gun I never used is a useless one.” Ed still hated guns.

Hawkeye smiled, opening her expression back up. “I’m surprised that you remember that,” she said.

Ed half-shrugged to avoid dislodging the delightfully warm heating pad from his other shoulder (which no longer felt painfully tense). He moved the foam from the top of the case and looked at the papers beneath.

Both the gun and the bullets seemed easy enough to alchemise -- the bullets especially so.

“I’ve put a list on the back of the bullet schematics listing different metals and ignition powders you can use for bullets, their benefits, and their disadvantages in brief.”

“You’ve done so much work for this. For _me_. Why?” Edward asked incredulously.

“We like you, Fullmetal,” Mustang said in his _Am-I-talking-to-a-toddler_ voice.

Edward didn’t believe that for a second. He’d have to figure out what Mustang was up to later.

But Hawkeye… She was trustworthy and wouldn’t pull a prank this awful. And she wouldn’t lie like this.

At least, Ed thought she wouldn’t. She _did_ lie about hearing him on the phone, though...

Ugh, people were complicated.

“Just a couple things left, Fullmetal;" Mustang said. As he continued, Ed pulled a lighter out of the bag. "A lighter from the best manufacturer on the continent.”

The silver-coloured lighter felt hefty, like it was made of thick, good quality metal. He flipped the top up and flicked the sparkwheel. The lighter ignited with ease.

“You can refill it by simply resting the lighter on its side on top of Sicily brand lighter fluid, and just make sure the array lines up properly, and it’ll refill hassle-free.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ed said, studying the partial array on the side of the lighter. He was speechless.

He slowly examined the lighter, taking in the many nicks and divots. When Ed looked up to Mustang for an explanation, the latter was facing away from him, face flushed.

He looked to Hawkeye for explanation.

“His aunt gave it to him when he was a kid, so he’d stop wasting matches,” she said.

“He gave me… The lighter his aunt gave him? Why?” Edward asked in confusion, eyebrows drawn together.

“Not like it’s of use to me,” Mustang said, glaring at nothing, trying (and failing) to be flippant.

Did… Did Mustang _care_ about him? _What?_

“Edward,” Hawkeye said, interrupting his thoughts. “This last thing is serious. You _must_ pay close attention. Do you understand?”

Edward gulped as confusion morphed into fear at Hawkeye’s _listen-to-me-or-die_ expression. He nodded overzealously, which knocked his heating pad off his shoulder and onto the floor.

Ed sighed but didn’t take his eyes off Hawkeye, who reached into the bag and pulled out the final item: a little tube of pills.

“These are for _emergency use_ _only_. They’re methamphetamine tablets. If there’s an emergency happening and you can’t stay awake or focus, take one -- _only one_ \-- and do what you must to get out the situation. Do you understand me?”

Ed gulped. “Yes, Sir,” he squeaked out.

"You take one, you do everything you can to remove yourself from the situation immediately, without hesitation. As soon as you're safe, you call one of us. Understood?"

Ed nodded again. "Yes, Sir."

Hawkeye nodded in mild approval. “Do you know what methamphetamine does?” she asked, studying his face intently.

Ed nodded, feeling like he was looking down her rifle’s barrel. “I do. I came across it in some research and did some studying of it.”

“So you understand the risks.”

“Yes, Sir,” Ed said again.

“Okay, good.” Her lips turned up in full approval as she handed him the tablets.

“The bag, when zipped, is extremely water resistant, but not water-tight,” Mustang said, breaking the tension in the air. “It both holds and repels water.”

“Huh,” Ed said, impressed. “Cool. But… Why did you do all this for me?”

“It’s the best we can do to help you out,” Mustang replied as he stood and stretched. His back popped in a way that sounded extremely relieving.

Ed shook his head. Tried to find words. Shook his head again. “Whatever. Can I go now?” he asked when he gave up on finding the words.

“You may go, Fullmetal,” Mustang said. He walked back to his desk and sat down. “Take these with you, though.”

Hawkeye stood up and watched Edward as he repacked the bag they gave him with his new belongings. Once he was done, he stood and took the papers Mustang was holding out.

“My prescriptions?” he asked, bewildered.

“Since you can’t get to your doctor for your prescriptions, I got a few months of them for you. He also wrote you a new prescription. An antiemetic, I think?”

Ed carefully tucked the prescriptions into his bag.

The small bag had two straps, and once the bag was securely zipped, he slipped the bag onto his shoulders. It pulled on his port in an uncomfortable way, but it seemed sturdy enough. He wiggled his shoulders, did some jumping jacks, and bent over frontwards and backwards. The bag moved some, but not enough to inhibit his motion.

His balance, maybe, but not his motion. He was impressed.

Ed paused just before opening the door into the main office, back facing Mustang. “Thank you.”

He immediately opened the door and walked briskly out. Hawkeye followed close behind with only a confirmation glance to Mustang.

“Gun range or train station?” She asked Ed once they were well away from the office.

“Gun range. I’d miss the train anyway, so I might as well figure out how to use this thing,” Ed said, wiggling his shoulders to signify that he meant the gun.

An hour and a half later, Hawkeye gave him a firm nod; he was satisfactory (which, in normal people speak, meant he was damn good shot with his new gun).

However, he. Was. Exhausted. He could barely keep himself upright as he trudged through Headquarters to the barracks. Hopefully Al would be there and would let him sleep. He didn’t think he could do much else.

He was in pain, of course, but it was well within the bearable range. It was the exhaustion seeped into his bones that was the problem.

He finally made it back to his and Al's room. He alchemised the lock open and walked in.

As he set his new bag next to his bed, he noticed his suitcase on the desk. He and Al _never_ put belongings like that on the desk, because it would inevitably make a mess of everything. The two of them had had lengthy discussions about it. So why…

Oh. One of the latches was completely missing. Which meant his suitcase had probably spilled somewhere.

Without him there to hide things from his brother.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“Yeah, ‘shit,’” Al said from behind him, in the kitchen.

 _“Fuck!”_ Ed shouted as he turned, automatically settling into a fighting stance.

He immediately relaxed and sighed. “Fuck,” he repeated.

Al scooped something from a pot on the stove into a bowl with a spoon and handed it to him. “Eat,” Al demanded.

“Al, I just want to go to bed. Please,” he begged. He had no idea how he could be so tired. Even speaking was more effort than it was worth, and he loved to talk!

“Eat, Brother,” Al demanded, pressing the bowl into his chest.

Ed took the bowl after a moment and began to eat on automatic. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew better than to argue with Alphonse when he used that tone of voice.

Al passed him once he turned the stove off and settled into the desk chair. Ed pivoted so he could see his brother.

When Ed was halfway through his dinner, Al turned and picked something up that was hidden behind his suitcase. He brought it out to show--

"Fuck," Ed said vehemently **.

"We need to talk," Alphonse stated.

Ed's thoughts started going at lightspeed, considering different lies and partial truths, something, anything!

(In hindsight, it was a miracle he hadn't broken the bowl, either by squeezing it or by dropping it)

"You're addicted to these pain pills."

Ed's train of thought came screeching to a halt. Al's statement surprised him so much he let out a bark of laughter.

"Brother," Al continued, holding his gauntlets out placatingly, "I know it's a sensitive topic, but I love you and just want you to be okay. We can get through this." Al sounded incredibly worried.

"Alphonse." He looked into his brother's glowing red eyes. "I'm not addicted to pain killers." Ed sighed and looked at his hands around the warm bowl in embarrassment. He could feel his cheeks heating up. "I am dependent on them, though."

"That's just another word for addiction!" Al replied, voice high and squeaky. He began to open and close his fists in distress. The pill bottle fell to the floor.

“Alphonse,” Ed began slowly, “I’m an amputee. One of those amputations is in the middle of my leg -- the middle of a bone. I have dozens of screws and pins in one of my most used joints, and both amputations sites have perpetually raw tissue. I have metal limbs that make up a third of my weight and pull on my bones. My. Bones. I’m _in pain,_ Al.”

Al stared at him, unmoving. After a moment, he looked away. “Shit.”

“Yeah. _Shit.”_ Ed repeated back. He sighed. “I didn't want to tell you. Didn't want to worry you."

Alphonse sighed again. "It's too late for that, Brother."

"I know."

"How often are you in pain?" Al asked.

Ed considered his options. Telling an approximation of the truth would probably work best here. "Near-constantly. But it's usually bearable. Just. Some days, I need pain killers to tolerate the pain.” Ed’s voice was strained; it was difficult to speak about this. Hopefully Al wouldn't realise there was more.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Brother?” Al asked in a quiet, hurt voice.

“I already told you: I didn’t want to worry you. I’m fine. I just… Need less pain sometimes.” Ed shrugged with his flesh shoulder.

Al nodded. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just looking at his hands. “Why do you have so many pills, though?”

“I never know when we’ll be near a pharmacy or anything, so I need to stay stocked up. I can’t run out. Without them, some days I can't function.”

"What do you mean?" Al asked.

Ed looked longingly to his bed. "I mean that when the pain's bad, it makes me sick."

Ed's mind was blank as his body tried pulling him to unconsciousness.

"So all those times--"

"Yeah," Ed interrupted. "All before I got the pain meds."

Al stood up and took the bowl from Ed’s hands. “Go to sleep,” Al said. “You look awful. We'll talk more tomorrow.”

“Gee, thanks,” Ed replied sarcastically as he stripped down to his underpants and shirt and climbed into bed.

He was asleep before Al even finished drying his dinner dishes, despite the stress of the confrontation.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please tell me what you think, and tune in next time, when we look at some of the photos in that photo album of Ed's.


End file.
